


Open Your Fucking Eyes, Justin

by LostCol



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gap Filler, Hangover, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Vomiting, What-If, s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCol/pseuds/LostCol
Summary: What if Justin was waaay sicker when he stumbled home from the Sap's party?
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 133





	Open Your Fucking Eyes, Justin

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always wondered how Brian would have handled that. Apparently I like writing fics about Brian spiraling? I almost feel like I should apologize to the guy. Enjoy the angstfest! (Well, angstfest with a sweet ending…)
> 
> Oh, and a note: I didn’t use a non-con tag because there’s none of that in this, the way the Sap’s party went down in the show is how it went down in this fic, but assuming you’re familiar with the storyline, you know what happened at the party, and Justin and Brian do talk about it here.

I sagged against the wall of the elevator, wondering how painful the next five minutes would be. I knew Justin was going to be pissed, but I was hoping he’d cut me some slack since this was the first time I’d missed our curfew. (I still couldn’t believe I’d agreed to that, jesus. Kid’s really got me by the balls.) I mean, it’s not like Mikey’s mommy issues are my fault, and considering Justin’s… _turbulent_ history with Mikey, I knew he’d understand. _If_ I told him what happened last night, which I still wasn’t sure I would.

Regardless, I wasn’t looking forward to facing a pissed off teenager while battling this motherfucking bitch of a hangover, so I steeled myself before sliding open the door.

The loft was quiet, with no immediate sign of Justin, but I was met by a weird smell. My first thought was that we’d forgotten to take out the trash, but then I realized I’d smelled this before, too many times. Vomit. And just as that was dawning on me, I stepped further into the loft and saw something out of the corner of my eye that made my stomach drop.

_FUCK._

Justin was lying in the fetal position on the kitchen floor in a puddle of vomit. It was crusted on his face, dripping down the cabinets above him, and, I saw when I got closer, pooled in the sink.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“JUSTIN,” I called loudly, kneeling next to him and shaking his shoulder.

No response.

His eyes were closed and his face was ashen, but he seemed to be breathing okay. Which I thanked Christ for, because judging by what I saw in front of me, he’d vomited after he’d passed out. At least he’d had the goddamn sense to pass out on his side. But why the fuck was he shirtless? I thought he might’ve taken it off after puking on it, but when I glanced around, I didn’t see one anywhere.

Jesus, Justin, what the fuck happened?

I grabbed his arm and around his back and lifted him off the floor, cradling him to me, and still… nothing. He was completely limp, unconscious like he had been on prom night… Oh god, _notagainnotagainnotagain_. I shook my head to rid myself of the thought, and I shifted him a little higher, closer to my face. His legs fell open, and I knew from the dark spot on his jeans that he’d pissed himself. Fanfuckingtastic.

I flicked his cheek – the one that hadn’t been stuck to the floor with vomit – hard, “JUSTIN, COME ON,” and shook him. His head rolled back and forth on my arm, and his mouth was open a little, his body so fucking limp sprawled across me, and between that, and the piss, and the vomit everywhere, I was starting to freak the fuck out. He looked so far gone. Had he fucking overdosed?!

“JUSTIN, COME ON, _PLEASE_.”

Panic creeped into my voice as I shook him harder and flicked his cheek again.

“OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES, JUSTIN.”

Desperate, I pinched his side, hard, below his ribs, and…

He flinched.

I shook him and yelled, “JUSTIN!”

And thank Christ, he moaned. He fucking moaned.

I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. My head was fucking pounding.

“Justin, open your eyes, come on,” I urged, rubbing my knuckles hard against his cheek.

His eyelids fluttered a little, but it took him a while to successfully keep them open, and it took him even longer to focus on my face. Actually, it took him a while to _find_ my face, his eyes stayed unfocused and glassy. I kept rubbing his cheek and watched him struggle toward consciousness with a hollow feeling in my stomach.

“B-Brian?” he finally slurred, his voice raw and weak.

Oh, Sunshine. God, the poor thing looked _awful_.

“Think you can get up? I need to get you in the shower.”

…… “Wha-at?”

“What did you take last night?”

He scrunched up his face in confusion and he just looked at me.

“What drugs did you take? At the Sap’s party?”

And why the fuck did fear flash across his face when I asked that? But he still didn’t answer.

“Okay, shower first. But you’re going to have a fuck of a lot of explaining to do when you’re lucid.”

He was still totally limp, so I sat him up against me, back to chest, and I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him up with me. I probably could have carried him, but I was still really fucking hungover and my head was pounding – probably more from the fucking terror at this point than the hangover – so I was relieved when he stumbled along with me, trying to help by moving his legs a little. He clutched weakly at my arms where they were wrapped around his chest.

The stairs were a bitch and a half, but I finally got him seated on the bathroom floor, propped up in the corner, watching me while I stripped. He still had this dazed, strung-out look, but his eyes were lazily tracking my movements, so I was letting myself feel optimistic about his level of awareness.

Which lasted all of 90 seconds.

I had just pulled off his soggy briefs and was about to pull him up and into the shower when his eyes rolled back and he crumpled in my arms.

“JUSTIN!” I shouted, shaking his shoulders, and he let out a pathetically faint groan.

Okay, okay, I just had to get him in the shower.

“Okay Sunshine, you’re going to hate this, but tough shit.”

I wrapped my arms around him and dragged him into the shower, turning on the water to the coldest setting before sitting under the spray with him between my legs, back to chest, his head against my shoulder, his eyes still stubbornly closed.

Within seconds of the freezing water hitting us (and _holy fucking Christ_ was it cold), I felt his body jerk, and he let out a garbled yell, pushing against my thighs and writhing against me in a weak attempt to get away. He was panicking, almost howling, but all I felt in that moment was relief, because his body was full of life again, kicking and smacking me, when he’d just been lying lifeless on the floor.

But I knew the poor kid was freaked out, so I tried to reassure him. I kept one arm wrapped securely around his waist and used the other to rub his chest while I brought my mouth to his ear and murmured, “You’re okay, Sunshine. Everything’s okay. Calm down, Sunshine.”

Eventually, he settled down and slumped against me, trembling, and despite the water pounding down on us, I could see the tears streaking down his cheeks. “It’s okay, Sunshine,” I murmured, kissing him gently on the cheek, noticing for probably the millionth time how incredibly soft it is. It’s like goddamn baby skin, silky and soft and warm, and every single time I kiss it, this wave of protectiveness surges through me.

I reached up and juuust managed to grab the soap off the ledge so I could wash him off. He was sticky to the touch, covered in vomit, and sweat, and piss, and tears, so I lathered the soap in my hands and then set the bar on the floor, using just my hands to swirl it over his skin, working from his head down. When I reached his thighs, a nagging thought that had occurred to me the second I saw him lying there shirtless flared up, and I reached down and pressed on the insides of his knees until his legs fell open. I inspected the insides of his thighs, running my fingers over them to feel for scratches or tender spots, and, thank Christ, I didn’t find any. But, when I ran my fingers all the way up and touched his soft cock, he inhaled sharply and flinched into me, letting out a whine.

Fuck. Okay. Deep breath.

“Okay, Sunshine, you’re okay.”

I wrapped my arms around his chest and pulled him up, turned off the _fucking freezing_ water, and wrapped him in a towel. He seemed a little steadier on his feet, but he was half asleep, despite the cold water, so I helped him lie down on the bed before drying him off.

When his skin was barely damp, I leaned over to catch his eye and asked, quietly, because something about the situation wouldn’t let me break the hush of the loft, “Can I check to make sure you’re okay?”, while I slid my hand down his side and over to his inner thigh so he’d know what I meant.

“Okay,” he said sleepily, nodding as he closed his eyes.

Trying to swallow the fear and anger I felt rising up in me, I moved his cock out of the way, probably more fucking gently than I’d ever touched a cock in my life, and carefully spread his cheeks just enough to check out his hole. I felt a wave of relief when it came into view and it looked fine, like it always did. Not red or inflamed, or god forbid, torn, like I would have expected if he’d been raped. In the sunlight streaming into the loft, I could make out the faint blush of a bruise blooming on his pale hip, but… I supposed that could have been from anything.

I threw our towels in the hamper and then crawled in beside him and pulled the covers over us. The cold shower had definitely helped with my hangover, but there was still a faint throbbing behind my eyes, and now that I knew he was safe and taken care of, I was crashing. I threw my arm over his stomach, buried my face in his shoulder, and was out.

>>>>>

When I woke up a few hours later, it took me a minute to remember the morning, and when I did, I bolted upright. Justin wasn’t in bed with me.

I found him pretty quickly in the kitchen, wearing a pair of my gym shorts. Neither of us had commented on it, but I’d noticed, a little while after he moved in with me, that he’d started wearing my clothes – shorts, sweats, tank tops – any time he felt unsure, or unsteady. Scared, or sad, or sick. And there was a fuck of a lot of that right after the bashing. There still is. And even though that sounds like the exact kind of thing that would send me running for the hills, I was kind of charmed by it. I didn’t hate that he wanted to feel closer to me in those moments, that he was somehow comforted by wearing my clothes. Because when the fuck has anyone ever felt comforted by Brian Kinney?

So, anyway, he was wearing my shorts, hurriedly cleaning up his vomit. He still looked like shit, and he blushed and looked away when he heard me coming.

“Hey, leave that. Why are you up?”

He shrugged one shoulder and continued scrubbing the cabinet. “I woke up. I’ve got to clean this.”

“Not when you still look like shit you don’t.”

“Brian…”

“What the fuck happened?”

And I swear, I hadn’t meant for it to come out so harsh, but now that he was conscious, and upright, and at least sort of okay, the fear had (somewhat) subsided, and I’d moved right to anger.

He shrugged again, the asshole. “I went to the Sap’s party.”

“And you, what? Partied too hard?”

“Wellll… Yeah, more or less.”

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? You’re practically a fucking D.A.R.E. mascot.”

He sighed, still scrubbing the fucking cabinet. “Fine. But just shut up and listen, okay?”

Christ.

“I was right about the Sap wanting some pretty boys around for decoration. But heee… he wanted more than that, and I didn’t… he drugged us,” _FUCK_ “and then I was in this room full of swings...” _FUCK FUCK FUCK._ “But I think I kicked him, he was kneeling, I—I think he was trying to unbutton my jeans, and I remember him yelling but his friends must have let me go, because I ran. And I got away.”

We stared at each other.

I’m pretty sure my brain was imploding. Cracking under the pressure of imagining all the other shit I’m sure he’ll never tell me about that happened _before_ they got him into the fucking swing room, cracking with the effort of trying to keep the goddamn _fury_ coursing through my veins under control, the fucking indignation. How _dare_ they? How fucking _dare_ they?!

After a solid minute of silence, I managed to get my brain marginally back on board and croaked out, “And your hip?” And fuck, my voice sounded tight.

“What?”

“You have a bruise on your hip.”

“Oh. I fell. I, on the way home, I tripped on the sidewalk.”

“Are you okay?”

“I… from falling? Yeah, I’m fine.”

…

“They didn’t hurt you?”

“At the party?” _Yes, at the fucking party, Justin._ “Aside from the drugs? And the fact that I no longer have a job? No. I told you, I got away.”

_Shit._ “Did you hit your head? When you fell?”

“No, Brian. I’m okay.”

I barked out a laugh. “You’re okay? Your boss drugged you and tried to gang rape you with his buddies, but you’re okay? What the fuck, Justin? _I’m_ not fucking okay!”

“Brian—”

“I come home and find you completely fucking unconscious on the floor, surrounded by vomit, and I couldn’t fucking _wake you up_ , but _you’re_ okay? Well fanfuckingtastic for you, Sunshine.”

“Brian, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I just meant physically. I’m okay physically.”

I breathed out, “Are you?” I couldn’t help it.

I went to him and lifted his chin until he met my eyes, and I just stood there, taking him in, and I could tell he was having trouble maintaining eye contact, but I didn’t know if it was because he was embarrassed, or ashamed, or… goddamn, I couldn’t tell.

After a while, he nodded in answer to my mostly rhetorical question, and I pulled him into me and held him, thinking about how fucking glad I was that he was there, and he was safe, and that he hadn’t been taken from me, again. And he felt so small and warm in my arms. I buried my face in his hair and took a deep breath so I wouldn’t fall apart again.

What kind of monster looks at this sweet, just goddamn luminescent kid, and thinks yeah, I’ll hurt and traumatize him to get my rocks off.

_Fuck_ them.

I’m not sure how long we’d been standing like that when I felt him shudder against me. I pulled back to look at his face and he looked exhausted, and kind of gray. He quirked a halfhearted smile and said, “Well, since you’re not kicking me out,” _when the fuck was that ever on the table?_ “I don’t actually feel that great. Maybe I should lie back down.”

I snorted and jerked my head toward the bedroom.

“Get back in bed. I’ll finish this,” I said, grabbing the sponge.

“No, Brian—"

“Bed. Now.”

He sighed and dragged himself off to bed, and I sighed and finished cleaning up his puke. God, there was so much of it. Which I realized belatedly was probably a good thing, since it helped get the drugs out of his system. And wasn’t that depressing.

After I finished cleaning the kitchen, I alternated between dozing in front of the TV, and checking on him. I didn’t want to leave him alone, and I was still pretty hungover and was operating on almost no sleep aside from our nap earlier, so I didn’t mind the excuse to laze around. The problem with lazing around was that I found myself struggling not to spiral into guilt and anger. 

I mean, we know what would have happened if I’d put my foot down about him going to the party. He would have gone anyway, just with the charming added bonus of a blowout fight beforehand.

_But._

But, if Mikey had just kept his fat mouth shut, Mikey and his fucking mommy issues, I would have at least been home when Justin got back. I could have… fuck, at least stopped him from passing out on the kitchen floor and laying there for fuck knows how long.

That’s all I could see for some reason, all I’d been picturing since I got him into bed and finally had time to slow down enough to think about what had happened. Him calling for me when he stumbled in, anxiety rushing through him when he realized I wasn’t there, wondering where I was and trying to decide if he was relieved I wasn’t there to see him like that, or disappointed I wasn’t there to clean him up and help him to bed and watch over him while he slept it off, because I _know_ he was scared.

I wandered over to the bar cart and poured myself a drink, swirling it around as I tried not to think about how after a few minutes, none of that mattered anyway because he’d fallen to the floor. And then he’d lain there for hours, through the sun rising outside, oblivious to the light streaking farther and farther across the loft floor until it washed over him, and it still wasn’t enough to wake him up.

I poured myself another drink.

If I’d been here, yeah, I would have been annoyed when I heard him stumble in, still pissed off that he’d gone. But I would have grabbed him when I heard him puking, when I heard him calling for me, and I would have pulled him into a cold shower while he was hopefully still with it enough to cry through an apology. He would have slept it off in bed while I kept an eye on him, instead of alone and filthy on the floor.

Drink number three.

But I didn’t have a fucking time machine, and he was clean and dry and safe in bed now, so what the hell was I doing to myself? 

I put down the alcohol and distracted myself with work, and I was half-heartedly working through my unread emails when a very rumpled Justin came down the stairs. He looked pale and shaky and nervous, and he wasn’t totally steady on his feet, and my heart jumped into my throat.

Shouldn’t he be looking better by now?

“You okay, Sunshine?”

“I don’t feel right.”

I pushed back from the desk and as soon as I stood up, I realized I was tipsier than I’d thought. I walked – slowly and carefully – over to him, asking, “Okay, in what way?”

“I don’t know, I just… I’m really hot.”

I was worried enough to ignore the obvious double entendre and said, “Okay, come sit down,” while I started guiding him toward the couch. His skin felt clammy, and he was actively sweating.

We’d only gone a few steps when he passed out, falling into me as he lost consciousness so suddenly that it pulled me off balance when I caught him around his chest. I ended up sitting down heavily on the floor and catching him in my lap while my heart hammered in my chest, but neither of us got hurt – Christ, if I hadn’t been next to him and he’d hit his head… – so, small victories.

Almost before I’d had time to process what happened, his eyes blinked open, and he scrunched up his face and bent forward, vomiting all over both of us.

Perfect.

I rubbed his back while he got it all up; we were both already covered, so there was no point in trying to move him until he was done. It was mostly just bile at this point anyway, and when I thought back, it occurred to me that he probably hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the night before. It was early evening now, so he’d gone almost a full day without eating at this point, and considering the appetite on the kid, I hoped, _hoped_ that’s why he’d passed out, and that there wasn’t a more sinister reason. Because I still didn’t know what the fuck they’d drugged him with, and I probably never would.

It took him a few minutes to stop vomiting and dry heaving, so I had time to kick myself for drinking when he needed me. But when he burst into big, gasping sobs that wracked his already shaking body, I figured time machine, lesson learned, blah blah, and forced myself to focus on him, who I reminded myself was very much in one piece despite our awkward fall.

I held him tight and rocked him slightly while I whispered, “You’re okay, it’s okay, Sunshine, everything’s fine,” in his ear while he cried.

The crying slowed down eventually, and he gasped and hiccoughed a little as he choked out, “I’m sorry, Brian, I’m so—”

I snorted and said, truthfully, “Don’t be. You think I haven’t done worse?”

I rubbed his back while he wiped his face on his arm, and then asked if he felt steady enough to walk to the shower. My heartrate still wasn’t back to normal, and no fucking way did I want to risk him collapsing again. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. But… don’t let go.”

As if that was even in the realm of possibility, Sunshine.

We got into the shower fully clothed, because I was _not_ putting vomit-covered clothes in the hamper, and once we’d rinsed off, we stripped and scrubbed down thoroughly. I kept a hand on him the whole time, and when we were both clean, I pulled him under the warm spray and held him, running my hands slowly up and down his back until he stopped trembling.

I turned the water off when he was warm and calm and relaxed against me, and we toweled off, threw on sweats, and I nudged him back to bed.

“I’ll make you toast, you’ve got to eat something. You want tea, too?”

He likes tea when he’s sick.

“Umm… sure. Thanks, Brian.”

I don’t usually permit food in the bedroom – unless it’s sex-related, of course – but I do make the occasional exception for illness, and I wasn’t about to make him sit at the table just then, with how pale and tired he was. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not actually a heartless monster.

He was fading by the time I got back up there, plate and mug in hand, curled up half asleep around my pillow. I set down the food and helped him sit up while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and when he smiled up at me, I had to catch my breath.

Christ, this kid.

I kept a hand on his back while he ate, not rubbing, just… there, but neither of us were really up to talking, so as soon as he finished, I took the plate away and started to head back to the kitchen. He grabbed my hand before I’d taken two steps, saying, “Brian…,” and when I turned back to look at him, he looked nervous. I figured he’d misinterpreted my silence, so I smiled and said, “It’s okay, get some sleep.”

He gave me a nervous smile in return, still unsure, but he slid under the covers and closed his eyes.

He slept for another couple of hours while I cleaned up the loft and then flipped through the channels, never settling on anything.

>>>>>

I got bored of that around 11 and figured it was late enough to go to bed, considering how exhausted I was from the stress of the day, not to mention spending the night before in a jail cell, so I set the alarm, turned off the lights, and went up to the bedroom.

Where I found Justin sitting up in bed reading a magazine.

I wondered if he was going to be up all night now, after sleeping all day. He still looked like shit, but not quite as close to death as he had earlier, so I took that as a good sign. He lowered the magazine when I flopped down on my back beside him and grabbed my cigarettes off the nightstand, lit one, and took a slow drag. I felt his eyes on me, and when I blew a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling, he cleared his throat.

“Hey… Brian?”

“Hey, Justin,” I said, smirking at him.

When he didn’t say anything, I raised an eyebrow and offered him the cigarette, but he shook his head.

Guilt flashed across his face when he said, quietly, “I wonder what happened to the other boy. The one already in the swing. I don’t even know his name, we’d never talked before last night.”

I stubbed out the cigarette and pulled him down beside me. I stopped myself from voicing my first thought, _“Thank god it wasn’t you,”_ knowing it wouldn’t help his guilt, and settled for, “We’ll ask around. We’ll find him.”

He nodded and shrugged, knowing as well as I did that I couldn’t guarantee we’d find a nameless twink. A nameless twink who more than likely didn’t have a Brian looking out for him. Shit. I squeezed Justin a little without really meaning to, and he cleared his throat again.

“Hey, Brian?”

“Hey, Justin.”

I couldn’t help myself, and I was rewarded with a glimmer of a smile.

“Do you… I mean, are you…” He stuttered and cleared his throat again.

“I’m sorry, Brian. I know sorry’s bullshit, but I am. I made some really fucking stupid choices last night, and I’m sorry I scared you.”

“If you’re going to be sorry for anything, it should probably be for almost overdosing at the fucking Sap’s sleazy ass party.”

He didn’t speak until I looked over at him, and when I did, he gave me a halfhearted smirk and said, “Like I said. I’m sorry I scared you.”

All my exhausted brain could come up with was, “you fucking shit,” and goddamn, it came out with way more affection than I’d meant it to.

But it got him to smile, so.

He scooted down next to me and rested his hand on my chest, and he waited until I met his eyes before he lectured me about the grounds for justifiable murder and how I was under strict orders not to fucking kill the fucking Sap.

I watched him while he talked with what I’m sure was a more and more incredulous expression, but I knew he was right. I’d have to devise a punishment worse than I’d given that goddamn judge from Hobbs’ trial, but how could I protect the stupid twat from his own reckless, idiotic decisions if I was in prison? So, a non-lethal punishment would have to do, unfortunately.

When he was done with his little speech, he leaned down and pressed his lips so softly against mine that I felt a lurch in the vicinity of where I assume lesser mortals have a heart, and when he pulled back, his eyes bore into mine.

“Are you okay?”

“Peachy, Sunshine.”

“I just mean, you said you weren’t earlier. And I was thinking about how I’d feel if I came home to find you—“

“—I’ll be fine, Sunshine. Let’s just hope the heart attacks you regularly give me are good for my cardiovascular health.” And as much as I wanted to brush off any further _feelings_ talk, I couldn’t ignore the pit his words had brought back to my stomach, so I stared him down and continued, “But if you ever so much as accept a bump from a stranger, or leave your drink sitting out on a bar with your back turned, or sneak off to smoke a joint from fuck knows who behind the studios at school, I will—“

“—tie my balls up and never fuck me again. I know.”

…

“I love you too, Brian.”

He leaned down to kiss me again before I could wipe that smug look off his face with a cutting remark – his purpose in swooping in so quickly, I’m sure – and he deepened the kiss by quickly, teasingly, poking his tongue into my mouth. Then he pulled back and settled his head on my chest, snuggling into my side (yes, _snuggling_ , Justin’s a big snuggler; I, of course, do no such thing), and I decided to drop it. 

I reached up to turn off the lamp and then carded my fingers through his soft hair while his breathing slowly evened out and deepened. I lay there staring at the dark ceiling, wondering when the hell Brian fucking Kinney had experienced so much character growth that I didn’t freak when a bratty, blonde twink implied that I love him. 

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone not familiar with it, D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) is a program in the U.S. that a lot of kids go through during elementary school. It’s generally taught by a local police officer, and kids are taught to say no to drugs, wear their seatbelt, stuff like that.
> 
> Comments are kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
